Anthology: Realms of Valor

Grimly clutching his short sword in one hand, the dagger and the lantern in the other, Pawldo followed the pacing animal down the central corridor, through a room of tall columns and under a narrow archway beyond. Several places along the way gold winked seductively from niches in the walls, or the telltale glitter of gemstones tried to coax him from his course, but the halfling moved on resolutely.

He entered another large chamber, a domed ceiling standing high above his head. Crossing carefully, he held his lantern up and tried to look into the shadows. Half-Ear paced beside him, head up and eyes alert. Suddenly the wolf froze, growling deep within his chest. Pawldo saw a dim form standing utterly still in the darkness-an erect figure, no more than three feet tall.

"Stefanik!" Pawldo yelped, running toward the young halfling.

But as abruptly as Pawldo started forward, he stopped. Stefanik had not turned, had not reacted in any way to his shout. Something's definitely wrong, he decided.

Then the shadows beyond the young halfling moved, and Pawldo felt a chill creep to the very marrow of his bones. A shape loomed there-a huge shape-and the halfling could not prevent a dull moan of horror escaping his lips. The murk parted, but only to reveal a thing of even more profound darkness, a hulking figure, larger than a man, with shoulders and head rising in the inky chamber.

Pawldo saw upraised arms, black and menacing-yet somehow tenuous, like thick, oily smoke. Cold swirled around him, threatening to suck the heat and life from his body. He saw long, wickedly curving claws at the ends of the reaching limbs. Then a hideous visage materialized- snarling jaws, spread wide to reveal a crimson tongue and blackened, hideous teeth. Most horrifying, however, were the thing's eyes, hellishly gleaming embers of hatred and doom that stared unwaveringly at the trembling halfling.

"Who are the thieves seeking to pilfer the treasures of Ketheryll?"

The voice rumbled through the cavernous room, and Pawldo felt as though a bolt of lightning had welded him to the floor. The hair at the back of his neck stood on end, and he sensed the unmistakable aura of magic crackle in the air.

Then he realized another terrifying fact: the wraith's voice had come from all around him! Spinning through a frantic circle, he saw a dozen shapes, all menacing, all rather indistinct. Yet the same hellish eyes gleamed from each, and taloned limbs reached out from them all, eager to tear Pawldo to pieces.

"Who are you?" the halfling gasped, finally summoning the strength to speak.

"I am Prince Ketheryll." Again the voice, a storm ravaging a distant valley.

Beside Pawldo, Half-Ear growled and crouched, eyes gleaming in the lamplight, flickering from first one to another of the circling horrors.

"Stefanik!" shouted Pawldo.

The tousled head twisted, as if the youngster tried to turn but failed. It was as if Stefanik were trying to look at his companion, but could not muster the strength. Again Half-Ear growled, fear tingeing his snarl.

"Do not waste your breath!" hissed Ketheryll. "Like you, he is my prisoner."

"What did you do to him?" Pawldo asked, slowly circling to face all the looming figures. What did I do to him? his conscience added harshly. He well remembered Stefanik's pleas to depart from this place and his own insistence on pursuing the elusive treasure.

"I've done nothing, but I plan to make him one of my treasures . . . my trinkets," said Ketheryll. "I understand you have spent much of the night collecting the others."

"What do you mean?"

'They were all shiftless and deceitful-even my fearless legion-all like that traitor Garius." Ketheryll smiled horribly. "He fled my home at my hour of greatest need, but that couldn't protect him from my wrath."

The voice deepened, gurgling with a hellish boil. "Like all those lured here by the promise of riches, drawn deeper into my web by their own greed, you and your thieving friend shall forever linger among these walls. Like all those who've tried to rob me or lie to me, you'll become things of imaginary value-all glitter, but no substance."

"I've seen plenty of substance in here," challenged the halfling, though he instantly regretted the foolish outburst.

"Do you think so? Perhaps you should look again."

Suddenly sick to his stomach, Pawldo realized that the platinum dagger felt surprisingly light in his hand. Glancing down, he saw the thing as it really was: a piece of cheap tin set with glass baubles. He knew immediately that the rest of the treasures in his satchel would prove no more valuable.

Pawldo tried to still the trembling in his limbs. Desperately his mind sought a plan. He looked around frantically, seeking some inspiration.

Half-Ear stood beside the halfling, his yellow eyes darting around the circle of figures. The hackles on the wolf's back bristled. His nose twitched as canine lips curled into a teeth-baring snarl.

Pawldo raised his lantern, acutely conscious of the sputtering flame, the small reservoir of oil still feeding the wick. The clay jar was heavy in his hand; more than half the fuel remained.

"Stefanik!" he called again. Once more the young halfling struggled, caught in a battle of wills-but still he could not turn, could not speak.

"Fool!" spat Ketheryll. Again, the sound came from all over the chamber.

The flickering light of Pawldo's lantern trembled as he tried in vain to still the shaking of his hand. He saw one chance-a slim, desperate gamble, but that gamble was the only thing that offered even a faint hope of escape, //"he'd guessed correctly.

He cast the dagger onto the floor and shouted a word- not the name of this nightmarish place, for he had realized that the Palace of Skulls was not the dagger's true point of orientation. Instead, he shouted a name. And with the speaking of the word the dagger flared like the sun.

"Ketheryll!" Pawldo cried.

The blade whirled on the floor and abruptly came to a stop. It pointed toward one of the encircling images, farther from Pawldo than the rest, almost lost in the shadows. The instant its true identity was revealed, the wraith lunged forward, extending icy claws toward its foe. With shocking speed those deadly talons neared Pawldo's face.

Half-Ear growled, the sound low and rumbling in the cavernous room. The animal crouched momentarily, nostrils twitching, then leaped. His growl building into a savage snarl, Half-Ear clamped his jaws on one of Ketheryll's writhing limbs. The cursed prince lashed out, sending the wolf flying, but the valiant attack gave Pawldo the instant he needed to raise his arm, hoisting the flaring lantern high over his head.

Grunting, he hurled the makeshift missile. The clay jar struck the floor at the prince's feet, smashing to pieces and splashing oil across the hissing creature. As the wick touched the slick stonework, orange flame leaped to engulf the body of Ketheryll.

"No!”

The sound was a shrieking wail, like a hurricane of wind swirling through a wide canyon, tearing at trees and rocks and even the earth itself. The trembling became real then, more than the gale of an unnatural wind. Pawldo staggered as the floor moved beneath his feet. The prince surged toward him, trailing fire.

Pawldo grabbed the gaudy dagger that had lured him to the palace. He knew now that it was only a trinket, but one with a difference. The dagger was the only one to be found outside the Palace of Skulls. The Doomed Legion and the other treasure seekers had been converted to cheap baubles, but always within the walls of the palace. That meant the dagger could be the ensorceled remains of only one person.

"Here, Garius," Pawldo whispered, cradling the knife before him. "Now's the chance to return to your master."